


we carry on through the storm

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [130]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Old Kingdom Fusion, First Meetings, M/M, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 14:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16019384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Starrk can feel it, a wrongness heavy on the wind, a prickle across his skin that feels like the edges of Death twisting into Life. He breathes through the nausea of it, raising his eyes to the sky, and hesitates, then grimaces. The snow is starting to get heavier, and he’d hoped to make it to the Abhorsen’s House before the storm got worse, but—A broken Charter Stone means there are Dead nearby, and likely particularly unpleasant ones.





	we carry on through the storm

There's a broken Charter Stone nearby.

Starrk can feel it, a wrongness heavy on the wind, a prickle across his skin that feels like the edges of Death twisting into Life. He breathes through the nausea of it, raising his eyes to the sky, and hesitates, then grimaces. The snow is starting to get heavier, and he’d hoped to make it to the Abhorsen’s House before the storm got worse, but—

A broken Charter Stone means there are Dead nearby, and likely particularly unpleasant ones.

Reluctantly, exhausted and cold and bleeding through the bandage around his arm, Starrk sighs, turns his feet towards the source of the feeling. Not a large Charter Stone, he thinks, but one broken is enough to weaken every stone around it, to twist the Charter out of alignment, and Starrk can't let that happen.

He checks the sky again, wonders if Lilynette will worry when he doesn’t turn up before sunset. She might, but she’ll never show it unless his life is on the line, Starrk knows. It’s hard to blame her; she’s been bound to the Abhorsen’s line for so long that who bound her has faded from memory. Starrk might be a little tetchy after that long, too.

There are footsteps in the fresh-fallen snow, half-filled and vague, and Starrk frowns as he parallels their track, rising up the slope of the first hill. There aren’t many travelers who come this way—it’s one of the reasons the Abhorsen’s House lies in this area, secluded far from anything that might attract visitors. Starrk can't quite tell if there are more than one set, but…he thinks so. A man’s print, and then after it—

Well. Starrk isn't Grimmjow, taking pride in his tracking. It’s enough just to know that someone passed this way, headed towards the broken Charter Stone.

Resting a hand on the hilt of his sword, Starrk casts a careful look up the remainder of the slope, where a stand of trees blocks his view of the top. The sick weight of the broken Charter makes his stomach turn, and he grimaces, raises a hand to the bandolier across his chest. The chill in the air is from the storm, but that doesn’t mean one of the Dead isn't already present, pulled through Death and into Life only to have the way close behind them. Starrk doesn’t _want_ to have to fight any of the Dead tonight, Lesser or not, and it’s hardly a good time or place for it; there's no running water until he reaches the river that passes the House, and night is just setting in. The broken Stone will leave him with very little Charter magic, too, and if he were one ounce less the Abhorsen—

But he is the Abhorsen, and Ulquiorra isn't even close to being ready to take his place, regardless of how long he’s been Abhorsen-In-Waiting. With a resigned sigh, Starrk unhooks the case that holds Saraneth, lifting the bell out carefully enough that it doesn’t ring. With his other hand he draws his sword, letting the wash of Charter marks curl down the blade like fire, and then carefully, silently slips into the trees. The snow here is patchy, the leaflitter dark and wet and quiet underfoot, but Starrk minds his steps regardless.

He can see the bulk of the Charter Stone through the bare trunks, a looming shadow in the deepening darkness, and it shouldn’t be dark. There's no gold glow to it, and the lurch of wrongness is stronger, almost overwhelming. Starrk's mouth feels dry, and he grimaces, calls up a Charter mark of defense just to see if it will come. It does, but slowly, lethargic as it forms in his mind, and—that will be a problem, in a fight. Starrk can't focus on ten things at once, regardless of his training.

And then, with a startling flash of light, Charter marks slide in quick procession across the surface of the stone and vanish again. For just an instant the feeling of the corrupted Charter vanishes, stealing Starrk's breath right from his lungs. He’s moving before he can even start to reconsider, ducking bare limbs and stepping out into the clearing around the Charter Stone, blade rising.

It meets another blade, bright-metal-hot with the reek of Free Magic, and Starrk doesn’t hesitate. He twists, disengages, brings his blade sweeping around, and it leaves an opening but there's a Charter mark on the tip of his tongue. He speaks it, lets it fall into the cold air and bloom into a shield of glowing light that blocks the necromancer’s next blow. There's a presence behind the man, something dark, and Starrk ducks another wild slash, steps back—

Saraneth rings out, will and might and the low, sweet sound of the bell in the winter air. The lurching body of a possessed corpse staggers to a halt, moaning quietly, and Starrk blocks the necromancer’s next blow, drives an elbow forward and catches him in the nose. He collapses with a cry, and Starrk takes the moment, drawing Kibeth from its holder and gritting his teeth as he lets the clapper fall free. The sound leaps out, making the Hand twitch, and Starrk raises his chin.

“Back to Death,” he orders, and the chill in the air is suddenly something else entirely. One moment of reaching, and suddenly he’s standing in knee-deep water, warm and slow, with the Hand across from him. It groans, reaching for him, but another lively chime from Kibeth, undercut by the deeper voice of Saraneth, has it turning like a marionette, heading down the river towards the First Gate.

Starrk doesn’t wait; binding the Dead while the necromancer is conscious is a risk, but he has no fondness for fighting outnumbered, and the Dead are always harder to deal with than the living. He steps back into Life, feels the almost painful heat of the air in comparison, and blinks frost from his lashes as he moves. There's a sound of muddled anger from one side, a lurch of motion, but Starrk turns sharply, bringing his sword down sharply. Half a second of resistance, and the necromancer’s head tumbles away.

The Charter mark for burning comes more easily than the one for shielding, and Starrk lets it slide down the blade of his sword to spread across the necromancer’s body in a wash of gold-white flames. Starrk watches for a moment to be sure there won't be any tricks, then steps away, buckling Kibeth and Saraneth back into place before he sheaths his sword. The air feels warmer, but he can't be sure if it’s from the absence of the Dead or his recent return from Death. Given that no one else has attacked him, though, he’s going to hope it’s the former.

Another flow of whole Charter marks flow across the stone, and Starrk grazes his fingers over them briefly, feeling the flickering strength of them before they wash back into wrongness. Not completely broken, then, not _yet_. There's still hope for this one to be repaired.

The smell of blood is thick on the air, though, almost overwhelming, and Starrk sighs, stepping around the bulk of the Charter stone. There's a dead horse in the trees, likely killed by the Hand, and a boot sticking out into his line of sight. Starrk frowns, placing a hand on his sword, and—

A man, he realizes as he moves all the way around the Charter Stone. Unconscious, long brown hair tangled over his face, clothes soaked with blood and melted snow in equal measure, with a paleness that Starrk is sure isn't natural. His hands are bound to the stone with ropes, and there's a wound seeping blood in his side.

A particularly sadistic necromancer, Starrk thinks grimly, crouching at his side, to let the man die slowly rather than just slitting his throat. Better for the man, though, and Starrk breathes out, sorts through the flow of Charter marks in his head to come up with three for healing. He sketches them out on bared skin of the man’s shoulder, watching them shimmer to life in a red-gold blaze. Instantly, the man gasps, grey eyes flying open, and he jerks against the ropes.

“Easy,” Starrk says, catching his shoulder carefully. “I'm going to cut you loose.”

“Grand Fisher,” the man says, already pushing away from the Stone, trying to wrench his hands free. “He’s trying to break the Charter Stone to pull Shadow Hands through—”

“He _was_ ,” Starrk corrects, and when the man stills in surprise he pulls a knife from his boot, carefully cuts through the ropes. With a sound of relief, the man pulls his hands down, shaking off the scraps of hemp, and then tugs up the hem of his coat and shirt. The wound is still visible, but it looks days old now, not entirely healed but far more stable.

Starrk reaches out, two fingers raised, and asks, “May I?”

Sharp eyes flicker to his bells, his surcoat with its embroidery of silver keys, his sword. The man laughs, expression settling into a lazy grin, and raises two fingers in return. “Of course,” he agrees easily. “Though at this point I think it’s a formality.”

Starrk rolls his eyes, but he touches his fingertips to the man’s forehead. Instantly, the Charter mark flares, rising in his mind to show him an uncorrupted stream of marks flowing through him, unending and ever-changing. An uncorrupted mark, and Starrk lets out a breath that’s partially relief, opening his eyes. There are fingertips on his forehead as well, but the man’s eyes are already open, and he’s smiling.

“It’s not every day the Abhorsen comes to save my life,” he says, and lets his hand fall back to his lap. “Thank you.”

Starrk inclines his head, not entirely sure what to do with the easy kindness. Most people fear the Abhorsen, fear the way they use Free Magic alongside the Charter, the way they control the Dead. He shifts back, rises, and offers the man a hand up.

“You said his name was Grand Fisher?” he asks.

“Well, that’s what he was calling himself,” the man says, and the curl of his mouth is amused. “I'm Shunsui Kyōraku.”

Starrk blinks, because the Kyōraku are a noble family, one of the highest, and it’s rare to find one of their members outside of the capital. “You’re a long way from home,” he says, looking Shunsui over.

Shunsui’s smile is wry and a little tired. “I was headed back from the Wall,” he says. “I served with the guard at the Crossing Point, but I guess I've been out of the Old Kingdom for too long. Answering cries for help is normal across the Wall.”

 _Fisher_ certainly sounds accurate, if that’s how he lured in victims. Starrk grimaces, tapping his fingers against the hilt of his sword, and glances at the dead horse again. “Night’s falling,” he says. “This Charter Stone will last long enough for me to send for Wallmakers to repair it, but we should leave before the Dead start crowding on the other side, looking for a way through.” He hesitates, then says, “My House is an hour west of here. Can you make the trip?”

Shunsui chuckles, gathering his hair back into a tail and twisting a strand around it to keep it in place. “To get out of the snow?” he asks. “Most certainly.”

Starrk smiles back a little, not quite able to help himself. Shunsui’s good humor is surprising, given the situation, but…not entirely objectionable. He’s certainly far more easygoing than Lilynette, who comprises most of Starrk's living interaction these days. “West it is, then,” he agrees, and when he starts into the trees, Shunsui follows him, walking gamely, even if his movements are a little ginger.

“You should make a business out of rescuing damsels,” Shunsui says cheerfully, apparently unconcerned that he’s labeling himself a damsel in the process. “You're rather good at it, and handsome to boot. I bet people would forget all about the commanding-the-Dead part if they could focus on the good-looking man swooping in to save them.”

Starrk eyes him a little warily, unsure if he’s being mocked. “I think that’s already my business,” he retorts. “But people _do_ focus on the commanding-the-Dead part.”

“Maa, they're so shortsighted,” Shunsui says, dismissing that with a wave of his hand. The motion makes him grimace, but he ignores Starrk's very pointed raised brow and adds, “This might just be the high point of my trip, you know. Some people just need to expand their horizons.”

“…Are you sure you're a noble,” Starrk asks, squinting at him.

Shunsui’s expression slides into a pout. “Of course I am!” he protests.

Starrk is reserving judgment for now. He hums skeptically, and hides a smile when Shunsui feigns offense.

The snow is picking up again, and night is falling, but somehow it’s rather harder to mind right now.


End file.
